When I Hear You Say, ‘It’s Not You, It’s Me’

When you say that “it’s not you, it’s me,” I want to believe you.

Maybe it really is you.

I listen to all the reasons you have to tell me that you aren’t right for me.

I tell myself deep down that it is in fact you, not me.

Despite the words coming from your lips, all I can decipher is that it is me, not you.

I tend to not easily open up to people.

I pride myself on my ability to be alone.

I spent years building a wall that could withstand the most horrific of battles.

I could sit at the top of my impenetrable castle watching the bloodshed unfold in all of its magnificent glory.

You know what they say about love, after all.

 “It’s not you, it’s me.”

The words are screaming in my ears.

The invader made his way into my kingdom before I knew how to react.

I could prepare myself as much as I thought fit.

No one could account for the silent assailant that slowly made his way through my barriers.

It was unexpected, as many good things are.

I found myself swept away in a state of bliss.

Little did I know you were chiseling away at the many layers of brick and mortar I slaved way to build in order to keep you out.

I unknowingly became vulnerable.

Left naked in my tower you made your way into, exposed to whatever weapons you chose to use on me.

But you didn’t, not yet.

I prepared for the blow that seemed to be prolonged.

Perhaps you were not the enemy after all.

Perhaps love versus war is a much better outcome for all parties involved.

I do believe that. I want to believe that.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

You see, I want to believe you, I really do.

How am I able to when your walls were much harder to penetrate?

How can I think that is so when equipped with a sword when a sledgehammer was needed?

What could I have done to make you possibly work to keep me safe?

You’re a traitor. You’re a coward.

Oh wait. I must be mistaken.

That’s not you. It’s me.